


smells like team spirit

by kaixo (ballpoint)



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Liverpool F.C., The Ache in Your Legs Footy Ficathon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-31
Updated: 2014-10-31
Packaged: 2018-02-23 10:28:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2544224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ballpoint/pseuds/kaixo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: moreno and javi have been attached at the hip since joining liverpool together, but javi starts to feel left out/jealous of mario balotelli.<br/>(all the puppy love for these two please)</p>
            </blockquote>





	smells like team spirit

It might have been the picture that did it. The one that hit the social networks minutes after Alberto and Mario walked off the pitch hand in hand after the game with West Brom, after Liverpool had gotten a result. 

2-1. 

“ _Oooh la la la_ ,” Jose pressed his fists against his chin as he fluttered his eyelashes coyly at Alberto and cooed in a mockery of a school girl’s voice, “Are we _best friends forever_?”

“Come on, it’s not like that,” Alberto snorted a laugh, as he sprinkled a bit of olive oil and balsamic vinegar on his salad. They were out and about, the Spanish contingent, having dinner at their favourite restaurant. Javier liked the outings - one of the strange things about Liverpool, England- was that the evenings seemed shorter. Darkness by three, and everyone locked away from the outside, unless it were the weekend. Jose tried to bring a bit of Spain to them by having these evenings.

Not that they could do this every day, but Jose Enrique made sure it happened enough times to be almost routine. If not here at the restaurant, it would be his house where they could talk and play (and get beaten) on FIFA 14, or dinners where they could switch off and speak Spanish, as quick and fluid as thought, and it was nice. Something familiar, a touchstone against all the strangeness of a new country, a new language, and new team-mates. 

“We’ve seen you in training,” Suso wagged his fork across the table at Alberto, a wedge of fried potato at the end of its tines, imitating a broad, stereotypical Italian accent. “You and A-mari-o, it’s _amore_.”

The group at the table broke out in cackles. Suso, with his dark merry eyes and seemingly quiet ways could punt a joke out of nowhere, which made it ten times funnier. Alberto started laughing too, covering his face as he turned red, his body shaking trying to contain his amusement. Javier felt the tremor of Alberto’s body beside his, as they were seated beside each other in the restaurant booth, their elbows almost touching. 

“You know,” Javier said between bites of paella, “you keep shooting crosses to Mario, and he’s yet to score.”

“I know,” Alberto answered with a nod, his laughter trailing off. “But he’ll do it, you’ll see. Last season, he did well with AC Milan. There’s no reason why he shouldn’t here.”

“A slump in form?”

“That happens to the best of us, yes?” Alberto furrowed his brow, as if Javier started to speak German to him all of a sudden. “Form dips, but class is forever, no?”

“But,” Javier asked the question that weighed on his mind since their underwhelming season began. “Is he class?”

“We wear the same strip,” Alberto rolled his shoulders, and showed his palms in a conciliatory gesture. “For that alone, until _el mister_ says otherwise, we will assume he is, no?”

 _No,_ Javier wanted to say, but couldn’t because you didn’t cut down team-mates behind their back. Not in a public place, anyway. So he kept his tongue still, his thoughts to himself, _We can’t assume that_.

***

Training, at least, was a constant.

Different from Atletico Madrid, of course, but intense in its own way, especially having to warm up under a sky the colour of spoilt milk, some days in the drizzle of rain, some days cutting wind. The good thing about training in England might have been the fact that the press stayed away. Oh, you had the odd camera here and there, but it wasn’t like Spain where you threw the doors open so people could see the sausage being ground. Just as well, because he’d been body blocked, knocked to the ground breathless, after taking on a challenge with Mario. 

Javier sprawled into a starfish shape across the grass, staring into the sky, seeing Alberto’s face as he peered down at him, forehead in that constant frown, and Mario’s an instant later, all impish grin. 

“Javi, are you all right?” Alberto dropped to his knees beside him, clad in the black of their training gear, and lime green bib. Javier felt the tickle of Alberto’s fingers as they skimmed the side of his face, his neck, his shoulders. With his other hand, he raised two fingers in front of Javier’s eyes. Feeling his face flushing with embarrassment because this had gone on long enough- Javier batted at Alberto’s hand. 

“He’s okay,” Javier felt the shift and torque of Alberto’s body against his, his thigh pressing along his side, as he waved the rest away. 

“ _Scusi_ ,” Mario apologised, as he held out a hand towards Javier. Javier raised his hand, rolling into the assisted pull as he got to his feet. 

“ _Eres fue-_ , I mean, you’re strong,” Javier rubbed at the nape of his neck. 

Mario shrugged, in that easy, liquid way of his. “So are you! I think I have bruises, eh? You are a beast! I saw that match- you with Atletico and Cristiano Ronaldo?”

Oh that, where he fell on his head, got whiplash and got around in a neck brace for almost the entire season. No big deal. 

“I-”

“You’re all right, lads?” They all turned as one in the direction of the voice. Steven Gerrard, their captain, face and body sheened with sweat from all the team drills they had to do, his hands on his hips as he eyed them thoughtfully, more in line of a school teacher scanning signs of mischief in his classroom than their captain. Javier’s ears now accustomed to his kind of English, and now understanding that lads, meant them. 

“Yes, thank you,” Alberto started, his English slow and careful. “Mario ran into Javi, and -uh-”

“Yeah, I saw the knock,” Steven cut in with a smile, saving Alberto from explaining. “I’d hate to have any of you injured before the next match. Good work, Javier trying to stop this one-” Steven tilted his head towards Mario, and raised his eyebrows, his forehead a mass of crinkles. “Mario, I’ll thank you kindly not to go breaking our Javier here before the next match?”

“I can’t help it if I’m strong,” Mario shrugged his shoulders. “Even Javier said so.”

Steven laughed then, clapping Mario on his shoulder. Alberto joined in, because how Mario said it was funny. Javier had to admit, you couldn’t _dislike_ Mario, not when you spoke with him face to face.  
Not dislike him personally, but he did, for reasons that made no sense. 

Like, speaking to Alberto in English. 

As much as Javier appreciated that he had to learn the language, there was nothing like speaking with Alberto in Spanish. They had arrived at Liverpool in the same week, Javier with the ease of someone who’d already broken away from childhood teams and realised this was another adventure, while Alberto was still getting accustomed to the idea. 

“I am hoping to play first team football,” he’d said to Alberto at the time. 

Alberto had just arrived in Liverpool, still a little shell shocked. Jose Enrique - more den mother than footballer it seemed, since he was getting over injury- invited them both to his house, and Suso was already there, playing with Jose’s dog and speaking with Jose in the living room. Alberto and Javier left alone at the table in the tiny dining room as they shared a meal, and Javier suspected Suso and Jose abandoned them to make them bond. Alberto, in his short sleeves, his tattoos flowing from underneath them, flooding his arms in colours and lines. His hair cut short with lines and designs against the scalp, seemed more in the mood to stare at the walls. 

“I mean,” Javier explained, as he dipped a portion of bread in salsa (a treat, this, to eat bread. He tried to avoid it due to dietary restrictions but - at the odd times- it was too good to resist), “if I stay there, I can’t play. So I’m here, to play, to compete.”

“I know,” Alberto sighed, playing with his soup. “My first year breaking through to the first team, and then I’m here in Liverpool- it’s all so strange, you know? My father and the club were like, focus on your game, on your team and-” the corner of his mouth lifted a fraction, his expression wistful. “I have only ever wanted to play for Sevilla.”

“Oh? Not wanting to follow in Sergio Ramos’ footsteps and play for -” and Javier tried not to roll his eyes, because he and the club had a _history_ and not a good one. “Real Madrid?”

“Sergio has his path,” Alberto said firmly, “and I have mine.”

“According to _Marco_ , you were linked to Real Madrid.”

“You shouldn’t believe everything you read, Javier,” Alberto scolded in mild tones. 

“We’re team-mates now,” Javier shrugged his shoulders. “You can tell me, no? It’s _only_ Real Madrid.”

Alberto’s dimples winked as he smiled, the too neutral tones in Javier’s voice easy to pick up. “So that thing between you and Real Madrid is true?”

“Alberto,” Javier shook his head, “you shouldn’t believe everything you read.” 

After that conversation, an easy stumble into friendship; moving into the same apartment complex, going together back and forth to the training grounds, the manager speaking to them in Spanish, for on pitch tactics and they were _fine_. Brothers in arms, two foreigners in a foreign land, language and identity a glass bubble that separated them from the rest of everyone except the other Spaniards. Even then, Suso and Jose’s ease in English made them a bit distant from Alberto and himself, grappling with the thorny bits of this new language. 

English- it introduced little fissures in the surface of their bubble, caused the rest of the world to rush in. 

Mario spoke decent English, and didn’t have the decency to be a bastard about it. 

So did Fabio, the sharp edges of his Italian accent softened from living in England for years, but Fabio wasn’t Mario. 

Alberto liked Fabio well enough - they both did. 

You had to admire someone who came to training every day, but didn’t get on the starting XI most times. Who realised that despite being benched it meant he was still on the team and brought the spirit of it, cheering and jostling everyone on from the benches. Throwing an arm around shoulders for comfort after defeat, being that steady presence at Javier’s side after he got the breath knocked out of him with their match against Ludogorets, Fabio’s hands on him, murmuring in his ear as Javier’s breath came back into his body, riding through the quick shock of pain. Yes, Fabio was a top team-mate, someone you appreciated in your locker room. Alberto and himself got on with Fabio well enough, but Mario... Alberto _liked_ Mario, to the point of trying to speak to him in English. 

“Alberto!” Mario greeted, as he bounced out of his low slung sports car at the Melwood training ground. 

Lipstick red, and just as glossy, his car stood out like the flash of a lighthouse in the inky darkness, against the slate greys and blacks of the other vehicles in the parking lot. Mario dressed head to toe in faux army fatigues on a Tuesday morning just made a sort of sense. Javier and Alberto stopped in their tracks, kit bags slung over their shoulders, clad in their black training kit. Alberto waved a hand in greeting, as enthusiastic as a school girl seeing her crush. 

“Hey, Mario! You’re on time for once!” 

“I’m always on time,” Mario replied with mock grumpiness, as he yanked his kit bag out of the passenger seat of the car, pressed the remote, locking the car with his key. “You lot are always early. You are supposed to be Spanish- the same like us Italians.”

“Time keeping is... important?” Javier said, forcing himself into speaking English, because he refused to be left behind. If Alberto insisted on speaking English with Mario to _practice_ so be it. 

“Don’t you start on me too!” Mario wagged his finger at Javier, his grin softening the rebuke. 

“You are right, Mario,” Alberto said, as they walked towards the doors together, their lanyards around their necks. “We do get here early, but we’re still trying to get used to Liverpool. The drive- on the - uh,” Alberto snapped his fingers, as he tried to jog his memory. “ _izq-_ \- left?”

“Yes, that’s _stupid_ , eh? How the English drive on their roads? It’s like moving in a mirror. Almost as bad as milk in their tea.”

Alberto made a face, showing what he thought about tea with milk. “Yes, I don’t know how Sturridge drinks it...” _a joderse y agatarse_ , Javier thought desperately as Alberto and Mario walked ahead of him, Alberto clattering on, happy like a pair of castanets, face tilted up towards Mario’s own. Mario gesticulating, patient as Alberto’s English failed him, frowning as he misunderstood. Mario spoke in Italian this time, then repeated it in English, with Alberto nodding, “Ah _si_ , I understand, I think. Thank you.”

Shaking his head, Javier adjusted his bag, held up his pass at the end of his lanyard, and went on through to the training grounds. Mario had better not get in his face today, just because. 

The crush of games continued, the results, mixed. The papers screaming for Mario Balotelli’s head. The lack of goals, and the litany they all knew by heart by now, _Liverpool is missing something, don’t you think? There is a Suarez shaped hole in Liverpool’s offence!_

Javier understood enough English to squirm the headlines that scrolled across the screen of Alberto’s laptop when he’d looked at it earlier. They were playing an away match the next day, staying in another hotel. It was an odd hour, where they trained on the field of the opponents they were going to play tomorrow, but too early to turn in. Jose and Suso had peeled off to the pool, working with the physios. Javier sprawled across Alberto’s bed, his socked foot tapping at Alberto’s knee, he looking at the top of Alberto’s head as Alberto hunched over the screen, his eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks, his eyes scanning from side to side as he read the information on the screen. 

“You really should stop looking at those,” Javier idly flicked through the channels on the TV, “Jose says the English newspapers are bad enough in their own way.”

“It’s terrible when we do not win,” Alberto mumbled, not looking up from his laptop, “our form is poor, but they can’t all blame it on Mario.”

“Speak Spanish.”

“No,” Alberto tapped at his keyboards, and Javier knew that he’d be bringing up _Google Translate_ , cutting and pasting an article in the dialogue box, before reading the Spanish version, frowning at the translation. “If I’m getting a yellow card from the--- referee? Referee. I want to know what for. In English.”

“The rules of the English game are not _so_ different, even if the game play is.”

Alberto finally looked up from the screen. His face looked weird, a ghostly tint from the laptop screen, and Javier squirmed a bit at the business end of Alberto’s pointed stare. 

“What’s wrong, Javi?”

“Nothing’s wrong. It’s just- I mean,” Javier lifted up the remote, and clicked off the TV. “Like... have you thought that Mario just doesn’t suit the style of play of _el mister_ and everyone’s too stubborn to realise?”

Alberto opened his mouth to object, but Javier raised his hand, “Just hear me out, no? I mean, it’s not like he isn’t trying, but-”

“We work through it-”

“Speaking English isn’t going to help him to play any better, you know?” Javier snapped, “ _Dios_ , you go on about him all the time, the press goes on about him all the time. When we do interviews in _España_ , they don’t ask us about our experiences in England, how we do things. It’s all Mario Balotelli this, and Mario Balotelli that- _why always him_?”

“I don’t -” Alberto huffed, his cheeks flushing with emotion as he slid into Spanish. “He’s not the _bruta_ the press wants him to be. You’ve seen him in training. He comes - he puts in the work. He stays behind when we leave training. It’s - unfair to place all of Liverpool’s failings on him when there is enough to go around for everyone to have a share. But - he’s a team-mate, Javi, and _trying_ ,” Alberto pressed on, his voice firm. “That’s the only thing that matters. If half the interviews we do is going to involve us talking up for a team-mate, I will do it. I will always do it, even if you can’t, or don’t want to.”

“I never said that,” Javier rubbed at his eyes, pride stinging at the implied insult. “I never said I wouldn’t- I just. _Merde_.”

“Okay, say he doesn’t suit Liverpool, and he leaves in the January transfer window, he’s still human, no? He will leave with memories. The way how football is, we might find ourselves together again on a different team in the future on a shared adventure. If so, I would want him to remember that we had respect for each other when we were together at Liverpool, yes? ” 

Javier couldn’t argue with _that_.

“However,” Alberto continued, tone conciliatory now, “you might have a point. He’s an Italian striker who’s always played in that style, even with his time in England, and-”

“Prima donna- the Italians, that’s how they play no? All arias singing up front, slinging their balls into the net.”

Javier felt the warmth and firm grip of Alberto’s hand on his ankle, as he gave it a brief squeeze. “I am tempted to say that to Mario in English,” he said, “but I won’t. Whatever happens on the run up to the next transfer window, this is our team, yes?”

“Oh, listen to Mr I am Sevillista,” Javier placed the back of hand against his forehead, throwing himself into the dramatics: twisting his body like a damsel in distress, calling up Alberto’s last press conference with his first team, complete with soft, simulated sobbing. “This isn’t goodbye, I’ll- come- back to y-y- you.” 

“We won’t talk about the fact that you almost died in the line of duty as a _rojo blanco_ , against Real Madrid of all teams no less,” Alberto smiled, dimples creasing the apples of his cheeks. “But we wear the colours of Liverpool now, and this is our team. Mario is our team-mate.”

Looking at his friend, Javier realised one of the reasons why Alberto might have been a fan favourite at Sevilla. You couldn’t fake his kind of personality; the commitment to team, the rallying spirit. The confidence to stand up and defend his team-mate as well as toeing the line, be it on Spanish radio, or in the press. Or even just holding Mario’s hand as they came off the field, using his burgeoning popularity with the supporters to shield against the grumbles of the fact that Mario had missed sitters left and right. 

He also came to another prosaic, but no less stunning realisation. “That means you’re going to shoot all the crosses his way.”

Alberto patted Javier’s shin, his fingers splayed across his lower leg. “He only needs to hit one in the Premier League to break the striker’s curse, yes?”

Aye, aye, aye, it was going be a long season.

***

The day after the night of Real Madrid, Javier woke up to the press.

Realised that Jose and Suso were right, the English media could shriek as much as the Spanish ones did. Javier found his way to the Melwood training ground, via bus, the trip quieter due to the absence of Alberto. Javier read the text on his phone, his mouth moving as he read the words because Alberto sent the text in English. **Will be on the way. Ali sick all over the kitchen floor. D: See you soon! Ciao, Alberto**

He changed, rubbing and blowing on his hands to warm them, as he tramped onto the training ground, scanning the sky for some sunshine. Finding no joy there, he searched for focus, ready to drop into his stretches, until his eye snagged on a figure on the field. You couldn’t miss him, 1.8 metres, a rangy figure in the Warrior black kit, his mohawk a bleached and spiky contrast to his colouring and clothing. 

The mannequins set up to the far right of the goal, to stimulate four men standing in front of goal, as Mario broke into a lope towards of the sitting balls, and textbook perfect, the ball rolling off his laces, curving upward into a steep arc before it hovered in the air for a second, dropped into the back of the net. 

Before he had a chance to clap his appreciation, Mario turned around, his face flickering with happiness for a second, but defaulting to neutral when he realised Javier was alone. 

“Alberto is on his way,” Javier started in English, “He - his dog is sick.”

“Ah,” Mario nodded, his hands on his hips.”So he finally decided on a dog. What kind is it?”

“Um...” Javier said after a moment’s thought. “Four legs? White? It barks.”

Mario half laughed, and Javier couldn’t decide if it was due to him being funny, or Mario laughing because he was having such a shit time of it, and it was better to laugh than kick puppies. 

“Boy or girl?”

“Uhh- girl _you’re killing me_ ,” Javier said in Spanish. “ _My English isn’t so good_.”

“You’re better than you think. When I speak with Alberto, you do follow the - um- conversations, you just don’t speak.”

“Alberto is- he’s anxious to speak English,” Javier answered in Spanish as he dropped into his stretches. Might as well, since he was out here. “He wants to speak to Steven without a translator, wants to speak with the fans who stop him- thinking he’s Steven Gerrard to tell them that he’s not. He wants to understand what you and Emre speak about at times. So, if he’s always talking to you, and seems eager to speak with you it’s because you- you aren’t a bastard about it.”

“Alberto is- I like him,” Mario nodded. “I always like to play alongside him, he’s a good player. He always tries to pass to me, to give me opportunities to score..”

“He is,” and that, Javier could admit with ease. Alberto covered his side of the pitch like a carpet bomb, was always working, his pace blistering. “I didn’t get to play against him when he was at Sevilla, when we were both in _La Liga_ but we do play in _La Rojita_ together. That’s great, but it’s even better playing with him here, because we - get along.”

The conversation stalled between them, as a lorry passed by, the noise filling up the spaces. Javier made an effort to stand up straight, to look Mario in the eye. “Sorry about last night and- shirt-gate? It was unnecessary.”

Mario sucked the spit from his teeth without rancour, his features remote. “It’s the press,” he said simply. “They want their story, they make me their story. That is it.”

Javier didn’t know what to say about that. He had had his share of press, but limited to the publicity Alberto and himself did on behalf of the club or country, mostly benign, bordering on silly at times. Mario’s press was _loco_ to put a fine spin on it, and you got the feeling that he’d always be ground zero of attention wherever he went, whether he wanted to or not. 

“I’m sorry, I-” Javier started in English, because, if Alberto had the guts to try speaking English with a team-mate, he could do. “I wish I could make it better - it’s unfair. Alberto always- he always talks good- well? Of you to the Spanish media. If he could speak English -”

“I’d tell him not to bother. Never explain, never complain when it comes to the press, Javier, remember that. They never let facts get in the way of what they really want to say.”

Wow, and didn’t that sound like hard earned advice? Hard to believe that Mario was only four years his senior. 

“I will- think about it. We have Real Madrid again in a couple of weeks, I hope I play then, if the _mister_ choses me.”

“Do you think,” Mario flicked a spare football on to his instep, before he went into keep ups, with the ball going wherever he wanted. From the flick of instep, to his knees, balancing it on his forehead, before he let the ball drop and shot it in Javier’s direction. Instinct guided him, as he balanced and flicked the ball on his instep, doing his own version of keep ups. “Do you think we will win?”

“I am a _Colchonero_ , now Liverpool,” Javier kicked the ball to Mario. “I will go down fighting.”

“I hope we play together on the away leg, then,” Mario said, before kneeing the football into the air, giving him space to position himself, and spin, thwacking the ball off his boot, the ball bulleted towards the goal - only to ricochet off the crossbeam. 

“Ah, bad luck!”

“Alberto!” Mario greeted, leaving Javier where he stood. Alberto jogged over, meeting Mario halfway, they greeted each other with a one armed hug, and the customary kiss on the cheek that the English never really understood. Alberto placed his hands on Mario's forearms, shifting on tip toes as he whispered something. Knowing Alberto, it would have been an apology about the night before, and the fallout of today. Mario cocked his head to the side, as he listened intently, before he nodded. Alberto patted him on the arm, and by some strange telepathy, they decided to speak English.

“I heard you finally got a dog.”

“Oh, yes, at last!” Alberto’s face lit up as they started to walk towards Javier, and he stood there in the morning, taking them in. Mario, tall, dark and seemingly remote, gesticulating with Alberto, more the height and colouring of a garden gnome than anything. Mario smiling at something Alberto said, and Alberto nodding at something Mario said; two team-mates finding time to carve out something positive from such a crap night and the press raging over its result. 

Another realisation hit. It was all right, even though their situation wasn’t ideal, they’d be okay. 

Alberto had the best attitude for it, Javier realised. Better to be good team-mates until they weren’t any more, due to transfers, but trying to make the best of out it, and if they got to the point of having a warm friendship, even better. Javier waited for them both, his hands on his hips, listening to their conversation in English. 

“What kind of dog?” Mario asked, voice warm with interest. It was an open secret around the Kop that he liked animals.

“Bull terrier.”

“Good, good,” Mario nodded sagely. “Nice- you have to watch them though. They have lots of energy.”

“Yes,” Alberto laughed, “she chewed a hole in our sofa and got sick. But you can’t be settled without a dog, no? You will come and meet her soon, yes?”

“I will. What is her name?”

“Ali.”

“After you then?” Mario teased, and Alberto rolled his eyes. “That’s Javi’s fault, he suggested it, and Lilia thought it fit. _Hola, amigo_ ,” Alberto greeted Javier with a warm hug, pressed a kiss against his cheek. 

“She looks like you,” Javier said, as they broke away from each other. “Without the uh-frow?”

“Frown,” Mario corrected. 

“Frown,” Javier repeated, “but she’s a baby. Also, she looks like you, Alberto.”

“I will let her loose in your closet, the next time, I think,” Alberto touched a finger to his chin, as if he were deep in thought. “Introduce Ali to her _tio_.”

“You wouldn’t dare. So we are here to train today, even though we got the day off?” 

“I just came to practice spot kicks,” Mario said. Javier looked at Alberto, who frowned and did a little tilt with his head. Right, he-they could do this. 

“We’ll help, if you want, but-” Javier raised a finger in objection, just to make sure Alberto and Mario knew he wasn’t _easy_. “We go for a nice dinner after this.”

“Okay,” Mario shrugged with an easy acceptance, his mouth in a hint of a grin. “I’ll have to scrape the change from under my car seat, but my treat, eh?”

“Okay,” Javier agreed, and wow, they spoke English for longer than fifteen minutes without him wanting to gouge his eyes out. Progress. As Mario loped off towards goal, Javier took the opportunity to drape his arm around Alberto’s shoulders. “This is fine, no? We will do this: Operation Mario Balotelli finding a goal in the back of the net before we write letters to The Wise Men.”

“Or opening Advent calendars.” Alberto reached up and squeezed Javier’s fingers briefly. “He’ll do it, you’ll see. We’re here for - um- _solidaridad_. Mario has enough pressures around him, yes?”

“Let’s get this solidarity on the road, the sooner Mario puts the practice away, the sooner we eat.”

“You’re so giving, Javier,” Alberto said, heavy on the sarcasm. “ A true _sacerdote_.”

“Let’s do this.” Javier said, and they did. 

FIN

**Author's Note:**

> Not real, but we know this, right?
> 
>   * _mister_ is a Spanish honorific given to the manager of a football team. In England, we call them _gaffers_.
>   * Picture referred to in the first line of the fic is this one: http://www.independent.ie/sport/soccer/premier-league/jordan-henderson-goal-seals-vital-21-win-for-liverpool-30638011.html
> 

> 
> Oh, and can my teams _please_ start having winning ways so I don't have to do these angsty prompts? Every time you lose, I start filling out one of these. Please, sort yourselves out! For my sake, if not yours. LOL.


End file.
